“Give me something to eat and drink,” he said.

He looked, indeed, extraordinarily strained and tired, and sat back on the upturned box by the fireplace as if in exhaustion.  He explained presently when Gertie had cooked another herring, and he had drunk a slop-basinful of tea, that he had walked fasting since breakfast, but he said nothing about the priest.  The Major with an air of great preciseness measured out half a finger of whisky and insisted, with the air of a paternal doctor, upon his drinking it immediately.

“And now a cigarette, for God’s sake,” said Frank.  “By the way, I’ve got some work for to-morrow.”

“That’s first-rate, my boy,” said the Major.  “I’ve been working myself this week.”

Frank produced his fourpence and laid it on the corner of the table.

“That’s for supper and bed to-night,” he said.

“Nonsense, my boy; put it back in your pocket.”

“Kindly take that fourpence,” remarked Frank.  “You can add some breakfast to-morrow, if you like.”

* * * * *

He related his adventures presently—­always excepting the priest—­and described how he had met a man at the gate of a builder’s yard this evening as he came through York, who had promised him a day’s job, and if things were satisfactory, more to follow.

“He seemed a decent chap,” said Frank.

* * * * *

The Major and Gertie had not much to relate.  They had left the market-town immediately after Frank’s little matter in the magistrates’ court, and had done pretty well, arriving in York ten days ago.  They hardly referred to Frank’s detention, though he saw Gertie looking at him once or twice in a curiously shy kind of way, and understood what was in her mind.  But for very decency’s sake the Major had finally to say something.

“By the way, my boy, I won’t forget what you did for me and for my little woman here.  I’m not a man of many words, but—­”

“Oh! that’s all right,” said Frank sleepily.  “You’ll do as much for me one day.”

The Major assented with fervor and moist eyes.  It was not till Frank stood up to go to bed that anyone remembered the letters.

“By the way, there are two letters come for you,” said the Major, hunting in the drawer of the table.  Frank’s bearing changed.  He whisked round in an instant.

“Where are they?”

They were put into his hand.  He looked at them carefully, trying to make out the postmark—­turned them upside down and round, but he made no motion to open them.

“Where am I to sleep?” he said suddenly.  “And can you spare a bit of candle?”

(And as he went upstairs, it must have been just about the time that the letter-box at Barham was cleared for the late Sunday post.)

(II)

Frank lay a long time awake in the dark that night, holding tight in his hand Jenny’s letter, written to him in June.  The bill he had not even troubled to open.